Messenger

Chapter Eleven: Worst Nightmares

It took Areti two days to realise he had killed two people. He had been focused on other things, like treating his and Ambrus's injuries and making sure they had enough supplies to last them til they reached Pethra. It didn't occur to him until he was sleeping on the hard ground, two days after rescuing Ambrus, that he was a murderer.

It came to him in his dreams, which until then had been filled with images of his blood-stained hands or a dead Ambrus. This dream was different. It started with him in the camp, surrounded by bodies, almost accurate to his memory. What changed was that Areti was stronger, faster, better than he had ever been while awake, cutting down anyone who stood in his way.

He couldn't say how long he was there, the clash of swords deafening. When he came back to himself, he was surrounded by a sea of bodies, all faceless and covered in blood. Beyond them all was Ambrus, waiting with the same wide-eyed look he'd had when Areti had saved him. When Areti had killed a man in front of him.

He awoke with very little ceremony, no gasp or razor sharp urge to sit up. One second, he was surrounded by bodies, the next, all he could see were the stars high above him. It took a few moments for his body to realise it was awake, and to realise the truth that had come to him in his dreams. As soon as it did, the nausea set in.

Within seconds, he was up, scrambling over to the edge of their makeshift camp, and vomiting into the bushes. He barely heard the sound of footsteps behind him over his retching, and flinched when a hand landed on his back. Ambrus. In his rush and panic and disgust, he had forgotten the other man was awake to keep watch.

Ambrus whispered in his ear, hands on his back and pulling his sweat-matted hair away from his face. Areti wanted to push him away but his aching stomach forced him forward once again. He had to wait it out, let his limbs tremble and his mind scream obscenities at him, and let Ambrus comfort him in a way he didn't deserve.

"Areti?" Ambrus said when he finally stopped and pushed himself up until he sat on his knees, chiton stained with sweat.

"I killed people," he whispered at the mess he'd left in the dirt. "Two of them. I killed them. I've never..."

Ambrus cursed and pulled him closer, turning him and pressing him against his chest. At any other time, Areti would have struggled and pulled away, but he was so tired. So tired. "I know, I know," Ambrus replied, cradling the back of his head with a calloused hand. "But they would have killed you if you hadn't. They would have killed me. You saved my life."

He had, hadn't he? He'd achieved what he wanted, but he hadn't properly thought about what it meant. No, the people he killed hadn't been innocent, they had been trying to kill him, but he still had blood on his hands.

"It was so easy," he said, voice muffled by Ambrus's armour. His mind flashed back to the little resistance the flesh had given, even under such an under used sword. "It shouldn't have been that easy. Why did I... What do I do now? How do I..."

The hands held him tighter and Ambrus sucked in a sharp breath above him. "I don't know," he said and finally, finally, Areti understood why Petros had seemed so sad whenever they mentioned how happy Ambrus usually was. That was an Ambrus of the past, from before the war, before he had killed. "I haven't figured that out yet either, I'm sorry."

He had known when he'd signed up to help the war effort that there was a chance that he would have to fight and kill someone. But five years had passed and he was not once sent to the front lines. A naive part of him had hoped that being a messenger meant that he would never have to kill anyone, never have to worry about fighting for his own life. If he hadn't gone to find Ambrus, then he still would never have killed anyone.